December 2nd, 1941 05:30

The sun dawned red over the endless dark purple of the Pacific Ocean. Private Charles "Charmy" Draper, a young bee from Boston, took a moment to stare in wonder, before his instructor's voice calmly stated: "Eyes forward."

"Yes, sir."

Captain Shad "Shadow" Leblanc, a black hedgehog with streaks of red in his head quills, sat behind him. They flew a P-40 Warhawk today, one that had its radio removed to make room for a second seat. At the captain's insistence, this Warhawk had also been modified to include flight controls in the rear seat if anything went awry. His men had nicknamed him "Shadow", to poke fun at this hands-on method of training newer pilots, and some called him "Cap'n Sha-deaux" to poke fun at his noticeable Cajun twang. The latter nickname was never uttered to his face, of course.

They were on the American side of the Luzon Strait, about ninety miles south of Japanese-held Formosa. Three other Warhawks flew a few miles to the east, holding at fifteen thousand feet. Shadow had three purposes for them; first, to act as an enemy patrol for Charmy's benefit; second, to radio for rescue if he and Charmy needed to ditch in the sea; and third, to warn Manila of impending attack, should Emperor Hirohito decide that today was the day.

Their four Warhawks constituted a tenth of America's fighter strength in the Philippines, bolstered by a meager fifteen Flying Fortresses. Major Vector had assured everyone at Clark Airfield that more fighters and bombers were on their way from Hawaii, but tellingly he'd never specified the exact number. Knowing this, Shadow had made a point of making sure the pilots under his command were thoroughly trained: they may not stop the Japs if they decided to attack, but they would make them pay dearly for attacking at all.

Shadow went down the list of mid-exercise systems checks. "Fuel level?"

Charmy answered each query immediately. "Half."

"Fuel pressure?"

"Nominal."

"Airspeed?"

"Two hundred fifty miles."

A little slow. "Altitude?"

"Eighteen thousand feet."

Good. "ETA to Formosa airspace?"

"Twenty minutes."

So, they were close enough to Jap territory to have a chance of spotting their aircraft in the wild. It was all well and good to pour over pictures, charts and testimonials, but Shadow believed that best way to know thy enemy, was to watch him yourself. Over the past several months, Shad had watched the Japanese pilots-especially the fighter pilots-grow more and more arrogant about flying into American airspace. That was to be expected: they were on the winning side. The peace Germany had signed with France last year, had all but neutered France's ability to maintain their global empire. Shortly after Hitler and Petaín made peace and alliance, the Japanese empire had generously dispatched a hundred thousand men to "protect" those French possessions; at least, the closest and most strategically important ones.

"Alright Private," Shadow said, "Bank east and south, maintain airspeed."

"Roger." Charmy made a long, lazy bank away from the Japanese island stronghold, and the blood red sun shined straight into the extended canopy.

Shadow squinted through his goggles, rested his hands on the flight controls, but did not engage them. Instead, he told Charmy: "Your radio's dead and you're alone. You got three bandits at twelve o'clock low, coming fast. What do you do?"

Instead of speaking, Charmy acted. The Warhawk's engine roared as it corkscrewed into the sky at three hundred and ten miles an hour, climbing an extra two thousand feet. He then rolled the bird to dive down onto the other Warhawks.

Too wide and too shallow, Shadow thought, he's afraid to stall. At least the dive itself was well-done, neatly putting the lead Warhawk in the sights of Charmy's cannons. Had Charmy pulled the trigger, the lead Warhawk would have erupted into a ball of yellow flame and red-hot shrapnel. "Scratch one," he said as they zoomed past the patrol, almost perpendicular to their flight path. "His friends are on you. What now?"

Charmy banked sharply to the left and up, trying to regain altitude as the other two aircraft gave chase. G-forces squashed the two pilots into their seats. He feinted further left, then broke and rolled right, then suddenly he was climbing higher, higher!

Not bad, Shadow thought, He'll be right behind 'em when he comes in for another dive. If he were the one flying, Shadow would have taken out the rear bird, circled away, gained altitude, and then sniped the last one before the guy had a chance to react. At twenty-five thousand feet, Charmy flipped the bird over to dive, and went in full throttle...on the leading bird. Shadow sighed.

Once again, the kid's aim was perfect. Had Charmy opened fire, his target's wing would have been sawn away by the guns, and the target would have spun wildly for twenty thousand feet before suddenly crashing into the ocean. "Scratch two, one to go," Shadow said, "Fuel?"

Charmy began to corkscrew skyward again, going into the maneuver at two hundred and ninety-five. "Over a quarter, sir."

"Pressure?"

"Nominal."

Shadow looked behind them. "Reduce to cruising speed," he ordered, "Espio got you."

"Fuck," Charmy snarled as he leveled off at fifteen thousand feet. The last "bandit" bird pulled up on their left wing. In the growing daylight, Shad could make out the mottled brown and green camouflage pattern on its fuselage, as well as the razor-toothed shark jaws its pilot had painted onto the forward cowling. The pilot, a deep violet chameleon with a yellow horn for a nose, saluted as he smirked at them. "Best two out of three, sir?" Charmy asked.

Shadow considered for a few moments. "Negative. Resume patro-"

A bird that definitely was not a Warhawk zipped upward by their right wing, so close that its wingtip almost touched theirs. Two others zipped by Espio's left wing. The foreign aircraft were out of sight before any of the American pilots could react.

"My bird," Shadow said as he engaged his controls, "keep your eyes open." He looked over at Espio, made an On me gesture, and banked a sharp right to pursue the intruders.

Shadow saw not one, but nine of them. Nine single-prop planes with long, slender fuselages, rounded wingtips, and spacious canopies. All of them were dark green in color, with a solid, bright red circle painted on the dorsal surface of both wings and the both sides of the fuselage. Before now, he'd only seen these birds in photographs: these were Zeros, Mitsubishi's latest contribution to the Imperial Japanese Navy.

"Holy shit," Charmy squeaked.

Shadow swallowed his alarm. Three of the Zeroes broke off from the group, then circled around to come straight at him and Espio. For God's sake, he'd better not start shooting. The last thing any of them needed was a dogfight. "Private," he said, "I want to see what these guys do. Tell Espio to hold fire."

Charmy looked over to Espio, shook his head while mouthing No. Espio gave a thumbs-up in acknowledgement.

The trio of Zeroes each dipped a wing as they came on. Then one went left, another went right, and the remaining third rolled so that his wingtips pointed at the sky and the ocean. The wing sliced the air between Shadow and Espio's Warhawks.

"Resume patrol path," Shadow ordered. "Looks like they're here to stunt, not fight. Hold fire unless fired upon." Via a series of gestures, Charmy relayed Shadow's orders to Espio. Shadow risked a glance to see if his wingman had understood, and he was glad to see the chameleon give them another thumbs-up. The other two Warhawks flew in formation, a mile off to Shadow's right.

To the amazement of all five American pilots, the three Zeroes began describing tight, sideways loops around each other, dancing like huge green dragonflies over the surface of a pond. One suddenly broke off from the dance, and made to rejoin the larger formation that flew in a holding pattern a few miles north. The two remaining suddenly turned upside down, and began flying belly-to-belly. Damn fool couillons, Shadow thought. Flying that close, the Japs stood a decent chance of entangling their propellers, or clipping each other's tails if one decided to pull out of the stunt too early. They mirrored each other's movements, lazily turning left, then right, before going into a shallow dive.

Shade fell on Shadow and Charmy. They looked up: not ten feet away, a cherry red kitsune grinned down at them through the canopy of his Zero, his eyes obscured by the glare off his enormous Coke-bottle goggles. Upon closer inspection, Shadow realized that the kid's hands were not on the control stick of his bird. His jaw nearly hit the floor. The fuck, he's flyin' wid his knees! He reduced his speed from two-fifty to an even two hundred, hoping that would make the Zero overshoot him. This would then put the Zero within Charmy's sights; hopefully the pilot would understand the warning and run back to base.

As if he'd sensed what Shadow was trying to do, the Zero reduced speed too. The kitsune pilot waved at him, then made a show of opening a small, hinged metal box. He removed a bag of what looked like dried apricots, shut the box, and casually began popping them into his mouth like candy. He paused, then held out the bag. Share?

Shadow stared, then glared. All I'd need to do is pull back a little, then nose up. The Warhawk's propellor would shatter the Zero's bubble canopy and give the little bastard a real shock. But he dared not; the stunt would put both aircraft in the sea, and this far from land, the ships most likely to pick them up would be Jap ships. Shadow didn't have the clearance to receive intel reports from Uncle Sam's advisors in China, but everyone had heard what the Japs did to Chinese prisoners after the battle for Nanking.

Shrugging, the kitsune finished his apricots, then gently pulled up and away from the Americans to rejoin his formation, which was flying north now; presumably, they were returning to base. Shadow looked at his fuel gauge: they had just enough to get back to base themselves.

Charmy didn't speak until they'd landed. As the canopy opened, he gave a low, appreciative whistle. "Eat your heart out, Eddie Rickenbacker."

Shadow could only shake his head as he unbuckled his harness and stood from his seat, stretching his lower back. "They were just showing off, Private," he told Charmy, "We'd whup 'em in a real fight."

"You think so, sir?"

"Yep," Shadow lied, not at all as certain as he sounded. In truth, the only birds he'd flown that remotely approached these Zeroes' level of maneuverability, were all biplanes, old tech. They're slower, yeah, he thought, only going two-fifty to our tree-fifty, but they can turn on a dime. The Warhawk had been designed for attacks against ground targets first and other birds second; but these Zeroes were clearly designed to win the traditional turning battle dogfight. And if all their boys can fly like that... He couldn't tell what sort of armor or weapons these Zeroes possessed, which increased his unease. If such were anything like that of the Warhawk, the dogfight would be no contest: the Zeroes would blow every Warhawk who faced them, out of the sky.

The cheerful rasp of Major Vector's voice interrupted his musings. Espio must've radioed ahead, Shadow thought.

"Ballsy call, Cap'n!" the big, green crocodile chuckled, "Most other men would've turned tail and run at so many Japs!"

The ground teams began to swarm the Warhawks in their hangars, like ants to a breach in the walls of their hill. "Gotta show them whose airspace it is, sir," Shadow said dryly.

The major laughed. "Well-said!" Then he lowered his voice to say: "We need to talk."

The damp warmth of the Philippines was only slightly abated by the ceiling fan in Major Vector's small office on the edge of Clark Airfield. It turned out that both Lockheed and Curtiss-Wright, the Army's primary sources of warbirds, were trying to court the favor of General MacArthur's Far East Air Force. Specifically, they were presenting designs for new fighters.

Shadow tried to hide his incredulity when he said: "A wingman, sir?"

"A plus-one," Vector insisted, "I just need you to stand around looking professional. I'll do all the talking. It's an open bar, too."

"So why do you need me, sir?"

"You're the best pilot in the unit," Vector explained, "and by association, your unit is the best, too. The best unit deserves the best toys." Vector spread his hands. "But you're not Rickenbacker, Captain. Just saying your name won't have an effect if you're not in the room."

"So you want me to look pretty, while you chat up the brass. That the way of it, sir?"

"Yes."

"Should I have a speech ready?"

"Couldn't hurt."

Shadow retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his breat pocket, took one out and lit it. "Why ask?"

Vector smiled wryly. "Authenticity."

Shadow puffed out a mouthful of smoke. "Authenticity?"

"It'd look too much like I just dragged you along if I ordered you to come with me. If you don't want to go, just say so." He paused. "I will say this: I can talk you up, too."

"Yeah?"

"'Capitaine Leblanc, Pilote Extraordinaire. Have tux, will travel, will test fly anything with at least half an airfoil.'"

A ghost of a smile touched Shadow's lips. He took a long, thoughtful drag on his cigarette before he answered. "Alright, I'll go. When's your flight to Manila?"

"Fifteen hundred, sharp. Best you dress up."

Rouge was disappointed when she read that night's schedule. The Navy had put them up in a tiny two-star hotel suite, just a mile up Dewey Boulevard from Angelo's, a bar popular with both the Philippine Army and Manila's US Marine garrison. Rouge was glad that the hotel was on the beach, but the bar became so rowdy at night that she could hear the racket through the pillows over her ears. "So we're just taking turns at the piano?"

Bunnie took the percolator off the stove, and poured a stream of steaming dark coffee into a large, white mug. Where Rouge wore a dark blue satin nightgown for bedwear, Bunnie preferred plain linen shifts that cut off at her knees. "I'm told it's a pretty quiet function. Black again?" Rouge nodded, and Bunnie handed her the mug before pouring herself a cup.

"And for the Army, not the Navy," Rouge stated, before taking a sip. It tasted somewhat stale and a little burnt, but coffee was coffee; it would have to do. "Guess we got loaned out again?"

"Yeah, unfortunately. Under contract, we can't really do much about who the Navy tells us to play for."

"Playing for Army officers," Rouge sighed before taking a larger sip. The vapors of the drink condensed lightly on her eyebrows, and she comforted herself with the thought that even bad coffee always managed to smell good. She perused the Navy program once more: tonight and the day after tomorrow, a stuffy ambience gig for some upper-echelon Army staff; tomorrow and Friday, shows at the Navy base in Sangley Point, for the benefit of the sailors stationed there; Saturday, a show to welcome the China Marine officers downtown; on Monday, a show at Clark Airfield-

Bunnie interrupted her reading. "What's wrong with Army officers?" Bunnie asked, as she poured a splash of cream and a shot of bourbon into her coffee. Then she remembered. "Aw c'mon, you can't judge 'em all by Butter Bars, can you?"

Rouge had to swallow her sip before she could answer. "So what if I do?" Rouge said, more coolly than she'd intended.

Bunnie shook her head. "My pa's an Army officer, you think he's like that when I'm not around?"

"How would you know if he wasn't?" Rouge looked up from the program to see Bunnie's eyebrow quirked, her lips compressed into a thin line of disapproval. "I'm sorry," Rouge said.

After a long silence, Bunnie said: "You know what I think? I think you made him up."

Rouge snorted. "Pauvre bête, why would I do that?"

Bunnie sounded more curious than offended, but offense was present nonetheless. "I'm not stupid, Rouge. First he was a cadet who dumped you for some high-class babe in Biloxi, then a while later you tell me he drank too much, then you tell me his mom kicked him out for dating you, then you say he dabbled in selling drugs, and you couldn't stand that. Which is it?"

Rouge inhaled, then said: "Why do you care?"

"I see the looks you give me when I have a guy on my arm. What the hell happened between you two?"

Rouge's eyes fell back to her coffee. "I wish I knew," she answered, her voice a hair above a whisper.

"You wish you knew?" Bunnie finished stirring her coffee, and came around the two small beds- dolled-up cots, in truth- to sit down on the couch beside Rouge.

Rouge's face hardened. "Bunnie."

"Alright. Alright." Bunnie took a long sip of her coffee.

After an even longer silence, Rouge asked: "Why do you switch up your guys every week?"

Bunnie smirked behind the lip of her mug. "Two weeks," she said, enjoying the oaky, buttery-sweet note the bourbon added to her coffee. Then she said: "If you wanna know, it's just enough time for both of us to get what we want. No point in draggin' it all out, you know?"

Rouge's eyes narrowed as she sipped. Bunnie thought she was going to say something; instead, the sip grew longer, and longer, until she had a full gulp swirling over her tongue. Upon swallowing it, Rouge finally said: "Does your pa know?"

To Rouge's satisfaction, Bunnie's smirk disappeared. "No," she said, "he doesn't."

For an even longer time, the two musicians sat together with their drinks, not speaking. Rouge finished hers first, got up to pour herself a fresh cup. As Rouge added more of the dark, bitter liquid to Bunnie's cup, she broke the silence. "What's our dress code for tonight?"

"Tasteful," Bunnie said, "we're supposed to look pretty, but I wouldn't wear any of those glittery pieces you wore for the Jerries."

Rouge allowed herself a little smile. "I'm assuming we're supposed to play tasteful too?"

Bunnie smiled back. "Upbeat, but tasteful. These guys are mostly senior officers."

"My ragtime's a bit rusty."

Bunnie laughed. "Not that senior. Just play casually, and we'll get through it without a hitch. We can save the crazy stuff for the rank-and-file."